


The Fox and the Weasel

by zestinpeace



Category: The Smoke Room (Visual Novel)
Genre: Anxiety, Boys Kissing, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Erotica, Flirting, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Furry, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Coital Cuddling, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25778566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zestinpeace/pseuds/zestinpeace
Summary: Cliff invites Murdoch, recent acquaintance and designated photographer for his expedition, to his apartment for some light refreshments.
Relationships: Clifford "Cliff" Tibbits/Murdoch Byrnes
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This story is likely going to be just 3 parts long. In fact, it's actually already finished; i'm just going to edit it part by part so I can incorporate feedback. And please do provide feedback!
> 
> Ultimately my reason for writing this is as a show of appreciation for The Smoke Room, its characters, and Echo Project in general. I can't overstate how happy I am to have gotten into them all, and how grateful I am to the writers, artists, staff and community who make it happen. You can tell that it's something that was written out of a desire to see an untold story brought into the world, and I think I wrote this story with that impulse as well.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. And for once, I really mean that; this world and set of characters have given me an impulse to write that only very rarely comes to me. Thanks again!

Clifford Tibbits had a secret. Though he had never explained it to a living soul, and likely never would, it was a hidden talent that he frequently found useful. That secret was this: to be a good host, you have to think three steps ahead of your guest. A houseguest, he had learned subconsciously from watching his parents busy themselves over countless social occasions, is a predictable thing. Watch them closely enough, and you’ll soon learn their mannerisms in fine enough detail that you’ll be able to serve them a plate of biscuits before they even realise they’re hungry. 

It was a secret he had not expected to find useful in the middle of this strange country’s desert frontier (especially given that the locals, he had learned early on, had a strange idea of what a “biscuit” is). But as he led a red-orange fox up the untrustworthy wooden steps to his accommodation, fur matted under the blistering midday sun, he found himself remembering his secret once again.

“Can I offer you a handkerchief, Murdoch?” Cliff asked. “You’re sweating terribly.”

“Am I?” the fox replied. He carried a crate the size of his torso in two hands, laden mostly with canned and preserved food. His sweat had started to seep through to his vest, and he could just barely hide his exertion in each breath. Cliff had repeatedly tried to persuade him to share the load, but he insisted that it wasn’t that heavy, or that it would be too much of a hassle to unpack the supplies halfway home. The stoat assumed he was just trying to impress his temporary employer, despite the fact he hadn’t been hired for his ability to carry a heavy load. 

“Allow me,” Cliff said as they paused outside his door.

“I’m telling you, I don’t…” 

The weasel interrupted him, pulling a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and pressing it directly to Murdoch’s forehead; he was reminded of a magician skillfully pulling an endless stream of coloured cloth from a hat. Cliff dabbed a little at his fur before pulling the now fox-scented cloth away. 

“Goodness, this heat makes walking anywhere a veritable gauntlet,” Cliff said as he offered the handkerchief to Murdoch to keep; he shook his head. Stashing it back in his pocket, he looked downwards with a frown. “I shouldn’t have called on you in the middle of the day, with the noon sun beating down like that.”

“Don’t torture yourself over it, Mr Tibbits,” the fox replied. “I’m just grateful you’re giving me and my family this opportunity.”

“Yes, yes, but I can’t have you collapsing on the way to my apartment before the expedition’s even begun!” Cliff fumbled with the lock on his door as he spoke. “After all, we’ll be walking for several days.”

“Are you going to dab my fur with a napkin every five minutes then, too?” he said with a smirk. 

Every time he saw the fox make that damnable expression, Clifford felt a cocktail or contradictory emotions. Ever since they first met, he had noticed, the smile seemed to accompany Murdoch’s saying something unconscionably inconsiderate. It was unbearable, but at the same time he felt an urge to laugh along with him whenever he did it. Worst of all, it was impossible to stay composed when facing him down with that accursed grin. He felt flattered and made a fool of all at once. All he could do was hope his ears weren’t too noticeably red, stammer out a “yes, well, by which I mean, of course not…” and open the door.

\+ + +

The curtains in Cliff’s room, though not sufficient to keep the morning sunrise out, served to cool the tidy, humble apartment. Although it was dim without a lamp lit or the windows drawn, it was still a haven from the relentless heat outside, not too hot or cold either way. Adjusting his bowtie — he had to resist the urge to take it off while he had a visitor, a rule of hospitality he had learned long ago — the stoat gathered himself enough to look at Murdoch once more. As expected, he gave the impression of an underwatered houseplant, wilting slightly towards the ground, gazing mournfully around in search of something to drink. It was time to act.

“Can I fetch you a drink?” Cliff began.

“Huh? Oh, no, I was just…”

“I’d offer tea, but right now you must be too parched to wait even a minute,” Cliff said, waving his guest in the direction of his room’s lounge chairs. “I’ll get you some water.”

Murdoch slumped in the central couch as the weasel went to find a drink, and fussed with his collar. Cliff reeked of money and sophistication; it was strange to realise he had been spending his nights in a modest little place like this. Then again, this was about as nice as it got out here, even if Echo wasn’t the worst town the frontier had to offer. By which he meant, he reasoned silently with himself, that it was a place where you might expect to find a roof over your head. It could still stand to be built on less unpleasant ground. He shifted uncomfortably on the seam between cushions, feeling the fur rise on his neck. That drink couldn’t come soon enough.

And just like that, Clifford stood in front of him, a jug with a floral design in one hand, a glass tumbler held daintily in the other. He passed the glass to Murdoch, who watched thirstily as the water poured forth.

“So,” Murdoch began, “what did you want to discuss here, Mr Tibbits?”

“There’s no need for that,  _ Mr Byrnes _ ,” Cliff said with a titter. “We should be more personable with each other if you’re to be a member of our caravan.” A small green leaf fell into Murdoch’s glass just as Cliff ceased pouring — mint. 

“I appreciate you inviting me in, I suppose,” Murdoch began. “But I wouldn’t want to impose on you if my work here is done for the day.” He gulped the water down in a single swig, and made to stand up.

“Please, please stay!” Cliff said, raising his voice more than either expected. The fox lowered himself back onto the lounge. “Won’t you take a moment’s rest? As your contractor, I must insist.”

“You’re paying me to take photos, Mr Tibbits. Not to nap in your apartment.” Murdoch sat further back and crossed his legs as he spoke. Cliff was beginning to doubt that he had been serious about leaving. Still, he poured him another glass, and went to return the water jug. “But I suppose my parents won’t miss me for too much longer. What was all this about getting ‘personable’, mister...ahem...Clifford?”

He had his grin on again, the one that seemed to make the weasel squirm so delightfully. It wasn’t that he was cruel, of course, it’s just that the fellow seemed to enjoy it — as did he, admittedly. Why else would Cliff have invited him into his home with all this talk of getting to know each other? But this time, the flustered objections didn’t come. He realised then that Cliff was facing away from him, taking far too long to return the pitcher to its place in the glassware cupboard. He shifted again on the couch cushions, feeling as though the pillows on either side of him would swallow him whole any second now. 

Finally, Cliff turned and spoke. “I’m only trying to ensure you take care of your wellbeing, Murdoch. Although…I’m sure it seems unprofessional, but in truth, I did simply want some company.” He walked over, taking a conspicuously solitary seat in the armchair to Murdoch’s right. “I’ve enjoyed little to any companionship in this town since I arrived. I swear, the people here would sooner turn tail and run than return my ‘hello’s’.”

“I do hope that you’re not including me among ‘the people here’,” Murdoch replied, still a little sly but with the sincerity he suddenly saw was needed. “I’d hate to have left a bad impression on you, Cliff.”

“On the contrary, you’ve been quite welcoming! I’m glad we’ve met.” The weasel smiled. It was a heart-warmingly earnest expression. “I mean that. Kind faces are a valuable thing when visiting an unfamiliar place.”

“Here’s to unexpected friends, then.” Murdoch raised his glass of water in toast, and drank. “Even if you only met them because they happened to work at the local general store,” he continued, dryly.

“Well...yes. But it’s preferable to have a handsome friend on hand to take photographs instead of an uncouth stranger,” Cliff said as he shuffled forward in his armchair. “You’re the former, if there was any doubt.”

Murdoch examined his expression. There was suddenly a light, mirthful tone to Cliff’s voice, and he gazed with half-lidded, smiling eyes at the fox. It took a moment to piece together what exactly the expression was meant to be. Was he...attempting to smoulder? Using the fox’s own tricks against him as a lark? His heartbeat rose — but not to the panicked speed of an easily flustered wuss, such as the one in front of him. This was Murdoch’s game the weasel was playing, and he was very poor at it. 

The fox chuckled politely and raised a loose hand to his chest. “You flatter me, Mr Tibbits. It’s a good thing I do have this camera; respectable employers tend not to hire people on the sole pretense of being good-looking.”

Clifford’s seductive glare — or rather, his attempt at one — quickly dissipated. Suppressing a blush, he cleared his throat and sat upright. “O-of course, but regardless of your role, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together, Murdoch. Why not make a head start on building rapport?” His smile was back, from ear to tiny ear, eyes shut as he beamed at the fox. “I’d like to learn about what we have in common. I’m sure I’ve led an unusual life from your perspective, but there must be some familiar ground.” 

“There is familiar ground,” Murdoch said. “Our pastimes, for instance.”

“Oh? For example?”

“Screwing men we barely know. Since you asked for an example.”

Cliff’s eyes opened, as if he had suddenly been awoken by a loud noise. Then the smile shattered, his ears flushed red, and he lifted a hand as if to shield himself. Jackpot, Murdoch thought. 

“Perhaps I was overly hasty in praising your kindness,” the weasel retorted, now crossing his arms. “I won’t have you embarrassing your  _ employer _ …” he said the word quite forcefully “…about a perfectly natural habit, let alone one that we both enjoy.”

“But that’s exactly my point, Cliff,” Murdoch replied as his  _ employer _ pouted. “We’re both partial to the company of men. We must have our share of stories. Let’s start with yours: did you finish inside Samuel? Or the other way around?”

The stoat pushed himself further back into the chair, the high, plush back seeming to tower over him as he willed himself to be smaller. “Mr Byrnes, I...this is no way to treat a business partner!”

“You said you wanted to get to know each other, Clifford,” Murdoch said, rising from the couch and taking slow, graceful steps towards his quarry. “Have I misunderstood your invitation?” He threw his hands up, as if in surrender. “If I have, then send me home. But if you want me to be friendlier than just some employee, I say let’s take off our uniforms.”

The fox’s shadow loomed over Cliff, who blushed and sweated in the back recess of the armchair. “Murdoch, I...this is happening awfully fast!” he squeaked.

“No time like the present.” The fox was over him, his hands now moving to grab Cliff’s bowtie. He pinched it delicately between his fingers, as if he was nursing a frightened bird. Something imperceptible changed in his expression; he still smiled, but it was a soothing, genuine grin instead of an insidious smirk. “I’m serious, Clifford. We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I had a hunch you’d enjoy it, but if you’d rather not…” 

Cliff’s heartbeat was racing in a way it hadn’t since...well, his rendezvous with Samuel. But there was something different about this, a loss of control over the situation under Murdoch’s intimate assault which made him feel, somehow, good. He had a genuine thirst for more, the way the panting fox had needed water when he walked in the door. He couldn’t interrupt the game now. Not when it was at its peak. 

“Keep going,” Cliff said. He looked into his assailant’s handsome eyes as he spoke, ignoring for a moment the red heat in his stubby ears. He did have the same smile, but the way the fox looked at him was all different; brow furrowed slightly, his ears to attention, keen and alert to any protest the stoat might make. Even in the midst of his overexcitement, it touched him to be looked at in that way; a rare friendly face, in a week full of unfamiliar ones. Then the smirk was back, and the fox’s hands got to work.


	2. Chapter 2

The bowtie came off easily. The shirt and waistcoat were harder; the buttons were unfamiliar to Murdoch and the fabric clinged, gently but stubbornly, to the sweaty fur on Clifford’s torso. The weasel resisted the urge to interrupt and do it himself. The only thing he wanted was to be at the mercy of the fox’s busy hands, the fingers tugging open buttons, eager to touch the fur underneath. 

Cliff shook his shoulders a little to free his arms from his sleeves. With his quarry sufficiently shirtless, Murdoch gently squeezed his pecs. Pushing the fur aside revealed scratches, mostly healed, on various parts of Cliff’s torso. He frowned, unwilling to broach the subject, admittedly because he didn’t want to divert their momentum. Besides, the stoat didn’t express any pain as his fingers brushed delicately over the marks; he only shivered gently, his chest rising and falling with quaking, excited breaths. Moving his hands around Cliff’s chest, and onto his still damp back fur, he pulled himself in for a kiss.

The first kiss was little more than a peck; Murdoch had barely even opened his lips. The weasel looked up with his mouth slightly agape, his warm, deep exhales brushing the fox’s whispers. To his surprise (and likely Cliff’s as well), the man who had spent the last few minutes retreating backwards into his armchair suddenly pushed himself forward, throwing his arms around Murdoch’s solid shoulders and pulling himself upwards into an amateurish open-mouth kiss. 

His passion was infectious. With scarcely any forethought, Murdoch found his left hand gliding down Cliff’s slender body, quickly landing on the crotch of his pants. He was rock hard already. 

Murdoch pulled away, with difficulty, from his eager host’s mouth, and cleared his throat. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“What...what question was that?” Clifford replied, struggling to push the words out as he panted. Though he had been reluctant to stop even for a second, he took the reprieve as an opportunity to finally remove his enormous spectacles, and looked side to side for somewhere to place them.

Murdoch offered a hand, and placed the glasses delicately on the coffee table behind him, before turning back around. “Who finished inside who? Huh?”

“It’s...inside _whom_ , I believe.” Cliff wore a devilish grin, in spite of his exhaustion. The little bastard was learning from him after all, Murdoch thought.

“Who was the lucky whom, then?”

Cliff suppressed a laugh. “I suppose there’s no point being coy about it now, is there? It was...” he cleared his throat, somehow looking his most bashful all night. “Mutual. He was very good to me.”

“Well, well, well.” Murdoch had returned to his earlier position, looming over the shrinking weasel. He seemed to like being towered over, the fox had noticed; no wonder he liked Samuel so much. “And what? You invited me over so you could show me what you’d learnt? You’re a man about town.”

“You know full well that _this_ was not my intention!” Cliff cried, covering his bare, fluffy chest in sudden embarrassment. 

“So you’ve said. Just gauging what you already know, that’s all.” 

They locked eyes. Murdoch had expected Cliff to look less himself without his glasses, but he was still unmistakable. He lifted a hand to the weasel’s chin, seizing it in a delicate grip. Cliff turned his gaze away, his ears red hot again, though he made no attempt to shake free. Shutting his eyes, he accepted another long, deep kiss. Such a small tongue, but so damn active, Murdoch found himself thinking. Like he’s in a hurry. And yet, the weasel was reluctant to pull away, even to breathe. It felt good for someone to want him so terribly.

The two of them carried on in that way for some time, indulging each other while Cliff sat shirtless and gradually undressed the fox standing over him (he seemed genuinely apologetic for not helping him with his “accoutrements”, as he called them, sooner). But he only got as far as his waistcoat and suspenders before Murdoch relented and removed his own pants. Being so close to the half-naked weasel was enough to put him in a state of eager half-hardness, to the point he couldn’t stand to keep his slacks a second longer. 

The underwear gone, he caught Cliff staring down at his exposed member, with an ecstatic expression on his face like he couldn’t believe his luck. His gaze returned to Murdoch’s face — and his expression changed to one of slight surprise — when the fox knelt at Clifford’s feet and began to unbutton his pants in turn. 

“Murdoch…” he whimpered.

“You’re not gonna be in Echo forever. I wanna give you something to remember your stay by.”

Cliff pushed himself up an inch in agreement, sheepishly permitting Murdoch to tug his pants down to his ankles. The fox paused for a moment to give his exposed dick, the tip already shiny and damp, a thoughtful stare. Even without saying a word, his gaze made the weasel predictably, audibly, adorably embarrassed. Such an easy mark. He hastily pulled his own pants off, his own dick now at full-mast below his still-buttoned top. He collapsed on top of Cliff once again, this time letting their bare members press gently together.

“Huh,” the fox said with his gaze turned downward. “Not bad at all, but I think there’s a clear winner here.”

Cliff frowned, indignant, even as he was still woozy with delight. “You’re determined to humiliate me at every opportunity, I see…”

“Just an observation. I won’t ask how the whore compared; I don’t want to completely demolish your dignity.” 

Cliff turned his gaze away, making yet another over-dramatic display of offence taken. Still, it was hard to take seriously as Murdoch felt the weasel’s cock pressing eagerly against his own.

“Only teasing, Cliff. It looks good. Just like its owner.”

Their muzzles locked again, respective warmths mingling as they frotted. At one point, Murdoch experimented by sliding a spit-dampened finger into Cliff’s ass. It wasn’t well received, but it didn’t go terribly, either. At least it confirmed his (already near-certain) suspicion that the weasel was new to all this. 

* * *

Cliff felt larger in the fox’s mouth. They always do, the fox reflected silently, before his thoughts were derailed by the stoat’s dick triggering his gag reflex. He quickly regained his composure, despite the humiliation of hearing Cliff chuck through an apologetic “are you quite alright?” above him. They didn’t say much else once they had built up a rhythm, tongue hard at work to keep him hard, hands gently fondling his balls, squeezing his thighs, and occasionally venturing back to his ass.

Soon he felt the weasel’s hands on either side of his face, sinking into the orange fur like he was holding onto dear life. Gentle as his grip was, he could feel his desperation in it, and heard him panting noisily as he thrusted inside his muzzle, willing himself towards that final release. A shame it had to finish so soon, Murdoch thought. He’d wanted this to be only the opening to their little afternoon together; get the weasel loose and wanting more before the real fun starts. Evidently, he’d been a little too wanting. 

He pawed at his own dick, left hand remaining curled around Cliff’s surprisingly muscular right thigh. His length had faltered a little, but the weasel’s eager energy kept him going, bringing him fully hard in his hand.

And with that, Cliff whimpered out a long, broken moan. Hands still clutching Murdoch’s tufts of cheek fur, his load shot inside the fox’s throat. He swallowed dutifully, looking up to catch the weasel’s face, usually so composed, contorting with pleasure. His head was tilted entirely back as he continued to pump smaller spurts onto his tongue. Even after he finished he seemed to forget himself, laying there with his dick in his friend’s mouth, even unaware of his hands on Murdoch’s face, until he swallowed the last of the discharge and made to stand up. 

Cliff’s arms fell limply to his sides, as if he’d been carrying a heavy weight for hours and was finally free of it. He smiled faintly into the middle distance, somewhere beyond the fox before him — this time unaware of the fact he was jerking off in front of him. It wasn’t until a full minute later that he returned to reality, just as Murdoch’s panting reached a final crescendo.

“Good God, what are you _doing_?!”

“Stay still,” Murdoch insisted. “Gotta finish too.” 

“On _me_?” Cliff looked him in the eye, incredulous. He saw that the blasted fox wore an altered version of his usual supercilious smirk; his body in the throes of pleasure, he could barely keep his eyes open, and his grin was woozy and crooked. Coming fully to his senses, Cliff pushed himself up the back of the armchair — letting the last drops of Murdoch’s cum fall on the fabric between the weasel’s bare legs.

Murdoch recovered more quickly from the afterglow of finishing, catching the last spurt in his cupped hand. His breath steadied, and he looked down at the mess that Cliff had allowed to form on the chair. He sighed, shooting the weasel a look, like a teacher accepting an assignment that both he and his student knew was a trainwreck.

“I did ask you to stay still…” Murdoch began

“You could have warned me! Where did you get the idea I wanted you to do that?”

“You were out of it,” the fox replied. “I thought I’d do you the courtesy of finishing on your fur instead of the chair. You know, because it cleans out of fur easier than it cleans out of fabric? What the hell is the landlord gonna think now?”

“Oh.” Cliff carefully climbed out of the chair, remembering at the last moment to lift his tail to avoid further contact. “I see your point, I suppose…”

“Have you got a rag we can use? And pass me that water jug. The best we can hope for is that the owner mistakes the smell for a respectable young vixen,” Murdoch said with a half-hearted laugh. Cliff remained straight-faced, far from the charmingly over-flustered expression he’d been hoping for. 


	3. Chapter 3

As if to make it up to his host (he still felt he wasn’t to blame, but he wouldn’t spoil the weasel’s mood any further with that), Murdoch scrubbed the chair. The stain came off relatively quickly, but the smell was stubborn. Even when it seemed to fade, he couldn’t say for sure whether it had been fully eliminated or whether he was just too used to it to notice. He kept scrubbing in spite of the stiffness in his arms — and the awareness that he was doing chores with his pants missing — until Cliff approached him from behind, finally beginning to unbutton his shirt.

“I’m sorry, Murdoch,” he said in a half-whisper. Murdoch couldn’t see his face, but his tone was sincere. He had put his glasses back on, but was otherwise still naked; there was an ambient warmth in the room that kept either of them from feeling truly cold. “I’ve been a terribly unthoughtful host.”

“It’s not that, Cliff,” the fox replied. “It’s you I’m worried about. I don’t know how things work in Belgium —”

“Batavia, Murdoch.”

“I was close,” he retorted. The weasel let out a reluctant chuckle at that. “But whatever you’re used to, you have to start learning to cover your ass a little better out here.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Cliff said seriously. “It’s only a shame that even at the edge of the known world, I’m not permitted to lower my guard. I’m here for strictly academic reasons, I can’t forget that, but still…”

“You want this to be a vacation.” Murdoch wrung the rag in his hands dry, the water dripping into the bucket Cliff had brought out for him. His eyes were shut as he felt the weasel’s hands over him. “I get it. Lord knows what I’d do for a vacation myself. But you won’t find that here. I suppose those scars of yours show you already know that, though.”

The fox turned his head a little, trying to catch a glimpse of the weasel behind him. Cliff was wrapped around him, face buried in his back, unreadable. “I’d rather not discuss that,” he muttered.

“I know,” Murdoch replied. “We don’t have to. I just worry about you, so...be careful, out there, alright? For me?”

With the buttons of his undershirt undone, Cliff’s hands kneaded Murdoch’s stomach, working the soft white fur between his fingers. “Thank you,” he said simply. “I’ll try.”

* * *

They found each other on the two-seater couch, neither of them willing to stand for a moment longer than necessary after getting so worked up. Murdoch lay on his back, tail curled to his side as best as it could be, while Cliff draped himself over him, as best as he comfortably could. He noticed the weasel spent a great deal of time with his hands on his neck, feeling the voluminous fur in his hands. Likewise, he found it hard to keep his hands off Cliff’s ass, in spite of — well, encouraged by — the weasel’s complaining. But for the most part they simply lay there, pulled to the couch as if by virtue of some gravitational anomaly that rendered them incapable of anything else, bare bodies pressed warmly together.

That is, until Cliff suddenly sprung up. Murdoch protested as the weasel’s knees dug into his body while he clambered to his feet. The fox sat up reluctantly, and saw his host rummaging through the unpacked crate he had brought into the apartment. 

“What’s the matter? Got a sudden craving for canned beans?”

“Not that,” Cliff replied with a playful laugh, as he spun back around to face him. “This!”

Slung around the stoat’s neck was a leather strap, attached to a small, handheld camera — unmistakably Murdoch’s. It dangled in the centre of his naked torso while Cliff stood with his hands on his hips, only slightly sheepish. A small part of Murdoch’s mind acknowledged that he looked absurd. Another part reminded him that he looked adorable all the same. But those thoughts were soon pushed aside by the instant realisation of how goddamn stupid Cliff was being.

“I thought about what you were saying,” the weasel began as he went to hold the camera, surprisingly finding the means of extending the bellows on his own, “about this trip being only a temporary reprieve…”

“Please put my camera back.”

“...and I realised I ought to keep more mementos,” he continued, raising it to his face.

“Drop the camera, you idiot!” 

Murdoch was in Cliff’s face before either had time to process his movement across the room. Without warning, he had scrambled forward and thrown his hand over the lens like his life depended on it. The fox himself barely registered the wave of panic that had passed through his body until after he had grabbed the device, staring furiously at Cliff. The weasel shivered; it was a horrible way to be looked at, most of all by this man he had felt so safe with only seconds ago. His mouth moved, but found no words. They stood there, unmoving, both only half-aware of Murdoch’s vice grip on Cliff’s arm in one hand and the camera in the other. 

Finally, his grip on both tightened enough that he involuntarily set off the camera shutter, the unexpected snapping sound bringing them both out of their frozen state. For an instant, so quick that Cliff questioned if it had really happened, an expression of utter terror eclipsed the anger that had been on Murdoch’s face. Then he awoke to himself, looked down at his hand — safely clasped over the lens of the camera — and his face softened.

“Sorry, sorry,” Murdoch said in haste.

“No, no, I shouldn’t have…” Cliff began before trailing off. He was still bewildered, but simultaneously too afraid to admit he didn’t know what he’d done.

Murdoch recognised his confusion. He let the camera dangle again, cautiously resting a hand on Cliff’s shoulder. “Listen, I didn't mean to scare you, it’s just that…” he pinched the bridge of his muzzle with his free hand, struggling to put into words something that, to his mind, was obvious. “I haven’t swapped out that film since I got asked to take photos of a crime scene. I don’t know where that thing is going, or who’s going to see it. William I can bear, but thinking about it getting beyond that? It makes my head spin.”

He felt uncomfortable lecturing the weasel; there was a firm, disciplinary edge to his tone, but he couldn’t bear to raise his voice. Meanwhile, Cliff could barely return his gaze, staring sheepishly at the floor even as he listened. Murdoch returned to the couch and slumped down, his own attention now diverted to the ground as well.

“This is what I mean by ‘covering your ass’,” the fox continued. “You can have your fun where you can find it, but these things stay behind closed doors. A photograph that puts me, naked, in your apartment is a risk I don’t feel comfortable taking, and I hoped you might realise that.”

“Are you quite sure your discretion is necessary?” Cliff asked quietly, not looking up. “It may not mean so much to you, but I’ve enjoyed this a great deal. I only wish I could have something more reliable than a mere memory to take home with me, when this is finally over.” In spite of his request, he removed the camera from his neck as he spoke, as though he knew he’d already lost his right to hold it. He put it on the table with a sigh.

“That’s why a photograph is so dangerous for men in our position, no matter how well you hide it,” Murdoch replied. “It’s like a memory, but less private. It’s a secret that can’t be kept. It slides under closed doors and outlives the memory itself. Only thing to be done is burn the thing.” 

Wrinkles deepened around the fox’s eyes as he spoke. Clifford had the disquieting feeling that Murdoch had forgotten where he was, speaking to him with eyes that saw something he couldn’t. He was quiet for a while, not knowing how to dispel the dark cloud that had entered the room. 

“I don’t suppose I can convince you to take it, then burn it a few days from now?” Cliff said with a weak smile. “I can’t help but think you’d be remarkably photogenic. Especially now.” 

“I don’t like seeing photos of myself.” The gloom remained in Murdoch’s demeanour, though Cliff was confused by his statement. It was out of step with the rest of his argument, but he had said it with stark finality, as though that was all that needed to be said. He noticed the fox shivering a little in the silence that followed. 

Cliff knew he couldn’t leave his guest in such an awful mood forever. He raised his hands in front of his face, thumb and forefinger outstretched on each hand. With them, he framed the naked fox in front of him, forming a rectangle with his fingers around a non-existent photo. 

Murdoch finally caught onto what he was doing and looked up, smiling reluctantly.

“I knew it,” Clifford teased. “You’re a natural born model.”

“Am I now?” Murdoch’s smile widened, to Cliff’s relief. The fox adjusted his pose to lie sidelong on the couch, chin sitting on his hand, his now soft member resting between his thighs. “Too bad you couldn’t keep a picture for all those lonely nights back home.”

Cliff let out a squeak of surprise, not expecting to be the centre of the fox’s jibes again so suddenly. “You’re always leaping to the crudest of conclusions…”

“I’m just making an educated guess. I know what I’d do with a photo of you.” From the couch, the fox raised his own hands, matching the rectangle Cliff had shaped. The weasel felt his ears go hot all over again, although he was reluctant to lower his hands. Murdoch really was photogenic, even without a camera to watch him through. A bushy tail behind him, that cream colouring running down the centre of his torso, and the curved line his lithe body seemed to form as he laid there, propped up on an elbow...looking him over, he felt a powerful urge to run his hands over him again. 

And then there was his eyes, looking through Murdoch’s own picture window at him. He gazed with the same yearning for intimacy, to feel the weasel between his paws, have his body at his mercy. But the whole time, his face maintained a sense of actual kindness, of accepting and welcoming the man before him. Regardless of the games they played at, Cliff realised he was finding it hard to be sincerely ashamed in the fox’s presence. It was as if he was being permitted to be himself, though he never realised that he had needed permission. 

Was this what he felt in Samuel’s chambers so recently? It was hard to say; if it was there (and he didn’t discount that it was), it was buried under the excitement and disbelief, the heated, physical passion that he had felt then, that had left him shaking with glee the entire night. Maybe it was there when they had laughed together and fell asleep in the same bed, but even that was uncertain with memory. Perhaps it was something that memory couldn’t hold onto, something that was only felt in the present. The sorrow he had felt when Murdoch had chided him threatened to return, but he pushed it down. For now, he could feel that deep comfort, like the removal of a heavy weight on his heart, more clearly.

Murdoch wasn’t ready to think about what he felt. Still, the warmness affected him too, even if only subconsciously. After the scare he’d given himself, he felt oddly sure that things would be alright for a little while. The gravitational anomaly that had held them in place on the sofa seemed to return: Cliff found himself returning to Murdoch, wrapping his arms and body around his friend in a tight embrace.

“Thanks for having me over, Mr Tibbits,” Murdoch said quietly.

“For the umpteenth and – I should hope,  _ final _ — time,” the weasel interrupted, pouting absurdly, “‘Clifford’ is perfectly fine.”

“Well, I’ll try, Mr Tibbits. Although I would think it makes things a little too obvious,” Murdoch said with another damnable grin. This time, Cliff couldn’t resist kissing him. 

“That’ll show you,” the weasel declared as he pulled away. He wore his own toothy grin, his little weasel fangs visible. But despite his hopes, the fox still grinned back at him.

“That sure showed me,” he said.   



End file.
